


Crowns

by Scintillae (Auste)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-08 15:05:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4309842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Auste/pseuds/Scintillae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She sits in the grass, making a flower crown.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crowns

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posted from my original fiction Dreamwidth account: http://makata.dreamwidth.org/442.html

She sits in the grass, the blades tickling the fingers of one hand. Her other hand is extended, its fingers curled except for one that served as a perch for a curious songbird. The bird chirps happily, and she smiles with contentment and fascination, examining its brown back and wings, its red breast, its tiny but sharp beak. It preens itself for a moment, and after one last twittered note, it soars away.

She, on the other hand, remains seated in the grass. Now both her hands are free to caress the gentle grass and find wildflowers – colorful, beautiful wildflowers. Unlike them, her dress is pure white – long, plain, and sleeveless, its only accessory a wide sash tied with a bow. Still, she stands out in the verdant field, like a majestic lily in full bloom.

She scoops up a handful of poppies – red, as if they were plucked from a sunset. These she keeps on her lap as she selects sprigs of little blue flowers that resembled drops from the sky above, purple blossoms, yellow buttercups...

It's not hard to find them. She doesn't have to stray far, or travel wide. There, in her little patch of solitude, she begins to weave the flowers' stems together, her fingers expertly moving to the tune of an invisible march. Her posture is relaxed, her lips pursed in concentration, her smile never leaving her eyes. It doesn't take long for the flowers to be gathered together in a ring, into her own little rainbow. The flower crown materializes from quiet, patient work, adding a splash of color to her dress. For a moment, her world is nothing but her, and her masterpiece.

The rustle of grass beneath walking feet interrupts her thoughts. Something – or rather, someone – casts its shadow over her. The shadow moves, and so does its owner. When she turns her head, her hair swishing along with it like gentle waves on the sea, she sees that the owner is a solidly built man with a contained yet casual air.

His clothes are alive with color; a blue waistcoat trimmed with gold and adorned with golden epaulets is worn over a simple white shirt with long, loose sleeves; his cloak is the exact same shade as the newly picked poppies; and his black trousers end in roan boots. He half-kneels beside her, resting one arm on his knee, and gives her the radiant smile of one who found what – or rather, who – he was looking for and did not want to be anywhere else.

She glances away, veiling her eyes with her lashes as she gathers the poppies away from the flower crown, her pout becoming a grin with the faintest trace of impish curiosity.

“You're not wearing your crown,” she points out. In reply, he shrugs, lifts the flower crown from her lap, and raises it slowly as if in a ceremony before letting it rest on his head. His smile does not leave him, nor does his casual air.

“Oh no, I rather prefer this one.”


End file.
